Scar Tissue
by cupidcrackers
Summary: Luka Maximoff. Daughter of Quicksilver, rejected and hated by society. She hates her father for what he hasn’t done, hates the world for what it did to her. When the uneasy cease-fire between the normals and specials shatters, she is caught in the cross


The television screen flickered noiselessly from one channel to another. Faces, places, people, buildings, expressions. Nothing stayed the same as her gloved finger tapped endlessly on the remote control. Old horror flicks, cheesy movies, stupid comedies, trashy reality shows, meaningless soaps. Brady Bunch. She screwed up her sharp features and hit the button even harder. Anything but the Brady Bunch. That show was form hell itself, she thought dryly as she switched channels again. One hand groped in the empty bowl of Lay's while the other still gripped the precious stump of black plastic—the remote—and ran through her floppy platinum hair. She tried to no avail to push back the oddly placed strip of hair, but it wouldn't stay in place. She frowned and surfed channels again. Her frown deepened into a dangerous scowl.

Newsflash.

She watched the television screen with dark intensity. A man appeared in front of the camera, lights blinking and microphones thrust into his face. He was neither young nor old, with the same shade of hair as her. His icy silvery blue eyes pierced the screen and seemed to stare directly at her for a moment before focusing somewhere else. Behind him, she noticed, the Library lay in ruins. Debris littered the ground and rescue workers in their definitive uniforms rummaged about in search of survivors, or more probably, bodies. So, she snorted. Another disaster. What will you say this time? What excuse will you offer the world this time? Her lips moved without her realizing.

"Father."

A reporter blocked his way as he tried to shove through the crowd. He offered the lady a killer stare as she pointedly ignored his annoyance. "It is being said that your father, Magneto, is the cause of this new terrorist outburst on normal humans. What do you have to say in his defense?"

He scowled and returned darkly, "Nothing."

The reporter seemed stunned into silence, but she was paid to talk and quickly recovered. "Mr Maximoff, my sources tell me that Magneto is your father. Are you in any way part of these attacks?"

"I am not part of these attacks, miss, I am trying to stop them." Pietro Maximoff growled and brushed past the lady none to politely. "If you'd excuse me I have things to settle."

He stepped into a sleek black Lamborghini—traveling in style even after witnessing a massacre—and the sound of the engine roaring as he zoomed away was residue as the camera swerved to capture the female reporter's smug face. She held the microphone to her lips and shouted above the noise of protestors and machinery.

"We have just spoken to Pietro Maximoff, son of the mutant terrorist leader Magneto who is responsible for the bombings today at the public library." She began in her saccharine voice. "Rescue workers have only found three survivors among the alleged one hundred people who were in the library earlier this morning. It is believed that this step of violence by the mutants is a sign to humanity that they are ready to start a war, yet some of them speak of peace. Whose cause is the right one? Who should we chose? As of now the question is left unanswered. This is Trish Tilby, reporting for Channel 17 news."

She rolled her eyes as the live report swung back to the television station for a daily weather check. She hit the power and watched as the screen turned blessedly black. So now he had things to settle, eh? She thought in the quiet of the apartment. Big surprise there—since when was he ever home? He was always out playing hero, talking with all his SHIELD associates and military doo-dads. And that enigmatic Xavier—every time he went to the professor, she never had a good feeling about it. He didn't even trust her enough to bring her along. She'd thought that mother's death would be enough to awaken him into actually looking twice at his family, but apparently that wasn't the case now was it? She threw the remote control angrily onto the coffee table and stormed to the balcony, looking out over the city.

Luka Maximoff felt the wind in her hair, the cool zephyr helping her temper sizzle down a bit. She never remembered her father being this impatient, and her mother certainly hadn't been so. Her mother was the picture of purity. She used to call her Saint Illana, because her mother was always patient and always there. But saints were only made saints after they had died, Luka thought sourly. After they had been martyred. Had her beloved Saint Illana been martyred? She sighed and looked to the streets below, the cars passing by in flurries of colour and the lights blinking on with the coming of dusk. She missed her mother so much—so very much.

The doorbell awoke her crudely from her moment of self-pity, and Luka cursed herself for being so completely wussy. She shouldn't be so pathetic, she scolded herself mentally. The doorbell cried again, and her brow furrowed. Hadn't dad said he had something to settle? Maybe it had been an excuse to escape from the reporter. Maybe he had wanted to surprise her by coming home early. Maybe he was going to take her out to dinner. Luka could have slapped herself for the stupid smile that began to tug at her lips. Or maybe aunt Wanda was with him, and they all could have a nice dinner together.

She unlatched the door with shaky hands and cursed herself for it. Did he have a cake? Ice cream? Oreos and peanut butter? How about some—

"Two chow mien, seven dumplings and two cans of coke, make that Diet?" an Asian delivery boy said, holding a bag of Chang's in his hand and an oil-doused paper in the other. He frowned impatiently at her as she stood there retardedly for a few seconds.

"Miss?"

Luka fought the urge to just bang her head in the opposite wall. Right, Luka, aunt Wanda and peanut butter indeed, she chastised herself. You could think of aunt Wanda but you forgot about your order from Chang's. She snatched the bag from the boy and muttered something along the lines of "thanks."

"That'll be twenty dollars."

She paid him hurriedly and slammed the door in his face before she could feel anymore stupid and embarrassed than she already was. She sighed as she set the food down on the table and pulled out her take-out carton. Luka made a mental note to work on being a little more realistic about her life. Namely that her father was Pietro Maximoff, son of a mutant terrorist leader, and had more pressing military and political issues to take care of than her whims and fancies. For saint's sake, he'd been dealing with these issues since she was born, and he didn't seem too close to stopping anytime soon.

"Grow up, Luka." She told herself sharply. "Your mother's dead and you're father's trying to stop a war. He doesn't have time for you, so stop being a whimp."

She shoved her father's take-out food into the oven and chucked his coke into the fridge before dishing out her chopsticks and digging into the noodles. Luka half-heartedly reached for the control and snapped the television back on again—she was so utterly bored. An old Dracula flick danced onto the screen, complete with snazzy music and corset-donning women with Victorian curls. She shrugged and stuffed a glob of fried stuff into her mouth --expertly maneuvering her chopsticks—as Dracula sunk his teeth into a screaming lady's pale neck. A black spot of blood dribbled down her pale skin and her eyes grew incredibly empty as the vampire fed. Flicks like these still sent a shiver down Luka's spine, despite having watched it seven times already. It was all part of being a movie freak, she supposed.

She made quick work of her dinner and took a drag from her coke can as the show began to grow more and more boring. Her mind replayed all the scenes exactly in time with the television, and it wasn't helping her stay awake. She slugged groggily over to the couch and slouched on the bed of cushions she had created solely for her pleasure. She'd had a lot of time to re-decorate her dad's entire apartment for her pleasure, for that matter. Luka almost slapped herself for being such a self-pitying slob and proceeded to snuggle deeper into the mass of plush pillows and terrycloth bathrobes she had stolen from Pietro's bedroom. Somewhere between the old Dracula and the curtain swaying in the breeze, she lost herself to sleep as the day took its toll on her. Her eyelids began to feel as heavy as lead, and she drifted into a blissful world of peacefulness and in-between—away from the stress of staying in school, putting up with the Bitchy Bunch, missing her mother and the perplexing feelings of hatred and hurt she felt towards her father.

It was pretty short-lived though, seeing as she awoke to the smell of pizza and the low soothing baritone of a familiar voice. Her father? She lifted her head a bit and rubbed the bleariness from her eyes. All the lights were off, save the kitchen lamp. Luka was vaguely aware of an extra bit of warmness that smelled like old vinyl and cinnamon. She drew the coat—her father's coat—tighter around her, almost subconsciously. He was eating pizza, she observed, watching the cheese in its elastic pull hungrily. Yummy Hawaiian pizza.

"No Wanda, I am _not_ obsessed." Pietro Maximoff said impatiently into the receiver of his cordless phone. Luka's snowy brows perked upwards as she laid low to eavesdrop.

"I just want to stop this once and for all. Then I can concentrate on everything else without worrying." He was saying tiredly. He sighed as aunt Wanda said something else form the other end. "I'm not having priority issues, Wanda, I just want to make sure our father doesn't get the chance to destroy the earth." He snapped. Luka hadn't heard her father snap at anyone before. Neither had she ever heard a word about her grandfather.

"I-know-Wanda-I-do-care-about-her-I-just-need-totake-care-of-things-first-so-could-you-please-stop-telling-me-how-to-run-my-life-thanks." He rushed so quickly Luka had to slowly think through what he'd said before actually understanding. Sometimes she wished that her father's super speed wouldn't get in the way of his speech. She needn't have wished too long, since he slammed the phone angrily down.

Wow.

Luka never thought she would ever see her father pissed off.

His back had been facing her all this while, and now he turned around, running a hand through his platinum hair. He must have caught sight of her eyes popping up from behind the couch inquisitively, because he raised one eyebrow and smiled.

"Did I wake you?"

Luka shrugged. "Yeah, actually I think so." She replied blandly. Her father only shook his head and sighed, seeming to age right in front of her.

"There was food in the oven." She said. He grinned sheepishly.

"I already ate that."

Luka tried to fight back a monstrous yawn but it came out anyway. She sank back into the couch, getting tired of the awkwardness of the conversation. She would give her dad a break, she thought cynically. Maybe he'd pay more attention to her tomorrow.

"I'm going back to sleep." She muttered, and slipped back into dreamland without even waiting for his response.

Pietro Maximoff wanted to say something to his daughter, but somehow he couldn't think of anything. He watched her sleep on the couch and leaned on the back of the sofa. Luka looked different, a far cry from her usual suppressed anger and broody expression. She looked relaxed, like someone her age should look, and not all creased with worry and hatred. He knew she was resentful about him. It was in the way she was quiet and awkward around him, or else subtly venomous. He wished things would be different, but it did not seem set to change anytime soon. He bent over and tucked back a strand of her stray hair, as platinum blonde as his. He wanted to do more, so much more for her. More to make up for everything she had lost because of him. But he didn't know how, didn't know where to start.

Pietro sighed and ambled away from the couch, feeling all the more tired than when he had first come home a while ago. He didn't like to be reminded how he had failed in certain more important expects of his life, such as his family and his own daughter. He fell into the plushness of his comfortable bed, looking at the ceiling and the cobwebs beginning to form in the far corners. Was he indeed making the wrong choice? His cause before his family, just like what Wanda had said. Just like his father did.

No, he thought firmly to himself. He was nothing like Magneto—he refused to be.

And yet that statement seemed so weak and insubstantial when his mind drifted back to Luka, who always looked at him as if he had killed Illana in cold blood, as if he were a monster and a stranger in her house. Perhaps that was the way he looked at his own father. Would it forever be a plight to all Maximoff children, that they should detest their fathers so much? Wanda never seemed to have that problem with her family. Maybe it was the gene pool. Pietro kicked himself mentally for his childishness. Wake up Pietro! It's up to you to stop your father and stop this war. Then you can worry about clearing up that mess you call your life. Then maybe, your daughter won't hate you anymore.

His lashes fluttered shut, along with the heavy eyelids as light faded from his world. Tomorrow he would leave, and he would finish up what he had set out to do once and for all. Tomorrow he would end the madness that was his father—tomorrow he would fight for the last time. And finally he would make it up to Luka, finally he would give her a family again.

"I promise."

Luka Maximoff wasn't in any way a morning person. In fact she wasn't an afternoon person, or even and evening person. For that matter, she hated the world and everything in it in general. School, however, was a little boring inconvenience she had to put up with, and that ultimately meant waking early in the morning. Her dad was still asleep, and she proceeded with extra caution to buckle her boots while grabbing a piece of leftover pizza with her teeth. She completed the feat successfully without making a mess on the carpet and locked the door as quietly as possible. The last thing she wanted to do was wake her father from three hours of sleep and be yelled out first thing in the morning when she felt like doing nothing more than falling asleep again. The sky was a silvery dove grey, limned a stunning line of crimson luminescence as the sun rose from behind its blanket of heaven. She took the short flight of steps and hurried past the doorman James, an elderly old fellow with bright blue eyes. James tipped his hat as she went, and she smiled in return while jamming the stale breakfast into her mouth. She took the steps off the foyer two by two and joined the rest of the morning crowd as they bustled hurriedly down the sidewalk.

It was a rather clear autumn morning and the air was cool and crisp. Luka felt like just slowing down and looking at the shadows the canopy of trees cast on the pavement, watch the people pass by and eat a nice hot chilli dog. Unfortunately, she did not have the time for all that nonsense, and another detention on her record was not particularly desirable. How many had she been called for and evaded already? She didn't even bother beginning to count. She sighed and shook her head, trying to wake herself up. Her eyelids seemed almost half closed and her eyes were bleary and unfocused. She wanted sleep badly, and felt strangely exhausted. It was that dream again, that dream she'd had over and over since her mother had died. The dream of the gates made of shining blue crystal, and the monstrous half-man half-lion sentry which pointed its claw at her, beckoning her. It made her nights so unbearable she had taken to sleeping later and later just so she would not have the dream—still it came like a thief in the night, stealing what she did not know. She could only hope and wish it would go away.

None of this now, she scolded herself. She needed to get through today and continue living like a sane person, as was needed. Luka weaved her way about the crowd, cutting past crisp businessmen with hard briefcases and receding hairlines, pretty young women on cellphones, other kids on skateboards or roller-blades and even a few important looking people who bustled as if they had less trivial things to attend to. Ah, how the world and society baffled her. She, who was so completely detached from most forms of social and spiritual delight. And she found the world strange. Perhaps it was the other way around.

Luka turned a corner and glanced at her watch—she was still doing some pretty good time. She might even make it early, although that hope seemed rather bleak. Her sling bag bounced rhythmically against her thigh as she strode forcefully through the people who simply refused to give way. Move it, damn it, she cursed mentally.

"Luka!"

Luka stopped and turned her head, half expecting one of the jocks to be coming round to torture her existence. The figure in the distance, however, was lean and lanky with darkish hair and flashing storm blue eyes. Devyn Veira jogged towards her, as the green man flashed on across the street. She arched an eyebrow as he caught up with her, smoothening back his shot black bangs. He grinned sheepishly and arranged the stack of books he carried as he crossed the road with her.

"You're earlier than usual." He piped up cheerily. Luka scowled at him.

"You're just late."

He chuckled and drew his maroon jacket tighter around him as a cold breeze swept up the litter on the ground. They reached the other street and walked down the familiar path to the school.

"Sure is getting colder nowadays." He said companionably, eating a sandwich as they went. "Say, it's Mid-Autumn Ball soon. You planning on going?"

Luka almost laughed. "Yeah sure. I'll just wait for the sky to crack and topple first."

She paused as the high school building loomed up in front of her. It was an uncreative grey stone building, with alabaster columns and a dark oak door with a classy brass knocker. Most of it was Victorian reminisce, even the heavy red curtains and long French windows which opened onto the field and track beyond. St. Joan High. The academy with some of the most brilliant and athletic teenagers in the entire of Hattan City—the crème de la crème, top dogs, intellects and perfectionists. Sometimes Luka wondered how in the world she had ended up in a straight-backed little crook like this, where rules were like the law and principal was his own little god. She hated it. Hated school hated the preps and nerds and cheerleaders and Bitchy Bunch. Everything about her didn't blend in at all, and only her pretty mark on her reports kept her within those walls. Her father didn't know that—he didn't know much about her.

"Geography's first period for me." Devyn announced and tucked a stray bang back into place. "Guess I won't be seeing you till lunch."

Luka shrugged. "Try not to get yourself killed."

He laughed and blushed a little. "I'll avoid the jocks as best as I can."

With that he took off down the hall, sprinting on his long legs. Devyn was a rather imposing young man, a basketballer for the St Joan Knights and probably one of the best. He was incredibly gentle and quiet though, and constantly depended on her to whack away all the other jocks who sought to bother him. She had gained quite a reputation for being a delinquent—she'd likely set the record for detentions, she thought as she strolled coolly past the classrooms and walls. There were no lockers—students had their own private desks and cupboards built in. With a rich school comes good furniture, Luka supposed. She callously pushed open her classroom door, fully aware she was five minutes late. It wasn't too bad in her books.

Mrs Peterson looked at her sharply from behind her horn-rimmed glasses, an ancient edition of Shakespeare's The Tempest in her hand. The Literature teacher was a young woman, despite being married, with dark auburn hair tied into a neat ponytail. She was witty and thankfully more interesting than most teachers. She also tended to lecture Luka most about her tardiness.

"How much longer must I put up with you, Miss Maximoff." She asked rhetorically. Luka answered anyway.

"As long as Principal pays you." She replied in a low grumble and stalked in, trenchcoat billowing out. She was used to bickering with teachers, and she was usually ignorant of their nagging. She seated herself at her customary seat near the back of the room, where few people sat. Everyone else was either intent on getting as much information as possible and wanting to lure the teacher into favoritism. Luka cared for neither.

"Please continue, Mr Weiler, on Feridnand's speech where you left off." Peterson instructed crisply, and Tom Weiler stood up confidently. He was a blonde soccer boy, with a god built and the usual jock attitude. Luka didn't like jocks, and he was one of the biggest ones.

"With it's sweet air: thence I have followed it. Or it have drawn me rather." He paused dramatically. "But 'tis gone. No, it begins again!" he managed enthusiastically, rendering a few giggles from the bimbotic bunch.

"It would control my dam's god, Setebo, And make a vessel of him." He ended with a flourish and sat down, half smirking half grinning. Mrs Peterson seemed rather surprised and content with his little act, and smiled a bit.

"That was rather good, Tom. Consider auditioning for the coming play?" she urged. Tom only smiled and shrugged. "So Ferdinand hears Ariel's song, and wonders where it is from. Prospero proceeds to summon Ariel, and the sprite dances in with his song."

Her crystal eyes met Luka's, and she felt dread leaking into her. "Miss Maximoff, perhaps you could do Ariel's little jig? And don't sound too depressed—Ariel is a sprite."

Luka scowled. She knew Ariel was a sprite, for saint's sake. She'd read the play ages ago and had even went to watch with her mother at the old theatre. She stood grumpily and looked down at the italicized verse, the words dancing in her mind. Within the space of a few seconds, she adapted as best as she could to Ariel.

"_Come unto these yellow sands,_

_And then take hands:_

_Curtsied when you have and kissed" _

Here, some of the more immature girls snickered, and she pointedly ignored them.

"_The wild waves whist:_

_Foot it featly here and there,_

_And sweet sprites bear_

_The burthen. Hark, hark._

_Bow-wow."_

She made sure to say the last line mournfully, and the entire class broke out into peals of laughter. Luka shrugged and continue don.

"_Hark, hark_!" she cried, arousing even more giggles.

"_I hear._

_The strain of strutting chanticleer._

_Cry!" _

And here she paused, standing up straighter and puffing out her chest proudly.

_"Cock a diddle dow!"_

Even Mrs Peterson bought into the fits of laughter as Luka sat down and flipped her hair back into neatness, smiling an enigmatic smile. This was a rather good day, she thought to herself.

A/N: hope you like it! Quicksilver and all other marvel characters appearing are copyright MARVEL tm... ) other characters are mine. Yepp.....will update after my exams..nyah!

Cheerio...

Saint iCe


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